


Geoffrey's Folly

by fengirl88



Series: Remembrances of days foregone [8]
Category: British Theatre RPF, Slings & Arrows
Genre: Chance Meetings, M/M, Memories, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-28 22:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17191124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: Geoffrey's past catches up with him in London.





	Geoffrey's Folly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [second_skin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/gifts), [theicescholar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theicescholar/gifts).



> I started this in March as a snippet for the Breakdown challenge at fan_flashworks, but then it developed a plot and a backstory and got completely out of hand.
> 
> this one is for second_skin and theicescholar - it's so lovely to share a fandom with the two of you again!

London is a city of ghosts, not all of them dead. Every corner on the walk from Cartwright Gardens to Leicester Square speaks to Geoffrey of the nine months he spent here in ‘84, trying to make it as an actor and getting by on bar work. (He’d turned down Edie’s offer of financial help, even though she said she’d left him money in her will and why shouldn’t he have it now? But a struggling actor should not live off his great-aunt, and god knows when he’d ever be able to pay her back.) The boys at the YMCA, Robert and Greg and Russell and Stephen and the rest, some of them lost to AIDS decades ago, some still alive and doing well, and some whose fate he never knew. He wonders what happened to Alex and Dan, the bar staff he worked with at the Admiral. The pub is called something else now; he doesn’t cross the street to take a closer look. All the theatres he went to that summer with Hugh the journalist: ghosts of shows that lodged in his mind, actors and performances that got under his skin.

Oliver isn’t here, though London’s where they first met, after he saw Geoffrey in that Genet reading at the Donmar. His is practically the only ghost Geoffrey doesn’t feel haunting this warm September afternoon. It’s cooler here than it was two days ago in Montréal, but only just. Everything is too sharp and too bright, too close. The roar of traffic and the hubbub of voices. Crowding in on him. His skin crawls. He tells himself it’s the jetlag, that it’ll be better when he’s caught up on sleep. 

He stops at the deli café by Leicester Square tube, like a time capsule. The menus don’t have pictures on the back any more, but the food looks the same, and there are still signed theatre posters all over the walls. He used to come here for falafel occasionally with hungry actors almost as broke as he was. Not with Hugh: this sort of place was too ordinary for him. Hugh liked extremes: the dancefloor of Heaven on a Saturday night (where he’d picked Geoffrey up in the first place), or else dinner in French restaurants with wine lists that made you blink, then the best seats in the house for whatever show he’d chosen and back to his flat for sex. The sex was fantastic, till it started to feel like payment in kind. It taught Geoffrey a lot, though, and he wasn’t sorry it happened. 

The Lumiere cinema’s gone, which gives him a pang; it’s a Gymbox now. Passing through Trafalgar Square, he catches a glimpse of someone on the steps of the National Gallery who looks a bit like Hugh. Hugh the way he was back then, not the way he must have looked in his last years. He’d made it almost to 70. Robert sent him the obit, two, maybe two and a half years ago.

He wanders down to the Embankment and crosses over to the South Bank. There was a footbridge here then, by the train tracks between Charing Cross and Waterloo East, but nothing like this wide expanse swarming with tourists, buskers, con artists offering games of Find The Lady, vendors selling candied nuts. The warm sweet smell makes him faintly nauseous. Back at ground level, he flops gratefully onto a bench – a proper wooden bench, not one of the weirdly shaped bright orange ones. They definitely weren’t here last time. Probably some kind of installation. He turns his back on all of it, the glaring art and the grey concrete buildings, the human statues and the noisy chattering crowds, and gazes out at the river, watching the sunlight come and go on the water. 

Shouldn’t have drunk so much with Rupert and Kate last night, but the terror of Monday’s fast-approaching workshop at the Almeida made his hands shake. He can’t let himself think about how the hell he’s supposed to conduct a day-long workshop on _Troilus and Cressida_ , a play he has no idea how to direct. Trying to get through that without weeping openly or chewing razorblades. Rupert doesn’t know about the weeping, he thinks, and he’d like to keep it that way. But it was no good Geoffrey telling him that the razorblades helped him think. Rupert was adamant: Health and Safety wouldn’t stand for it. There are more rules these days about how you behave around actors. It’s humiliating, needing this and not being able to have it. More so because he did without it for years, until things got so bad with Ellen again.

The other absent ghost. She’s not dead, but she’s never felt more gone. Not even when he was in the hospital after the _Hamlet_ breakdown. 

Dinner with Rupert and Kate was hard. Their life is glossy in a way Geoffrey and Ellen’s never was, even before the TV company took Ellen’s house and they had to start again in Montréal. But they have that comfort and ease around each other domestically that he and Ellen used to have, making dinner and conversation in their big kitchen. (When was the last time he and Ellen had anyone round for dinner? Not for months; maybe not in over a year. Anna used to come, till she couldn’t stand it any longer.) There’s a picture on the wall from rehearsals: Kate as Medea, Rupert directing her. 

It felt weird, sitting there talking about shows he’d heard about but not seen. Kate raving about Imelda in _Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf_ , asking if he saw the NT Live broadcast. Geoffrey doesn’t watch broadcast relays of theatre, and says so: you can’t get the terror and ecstasy and revolution of live theatre in a recording. He doesn’t say, though it’s true, that he hasn’t been able to watch _Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf_ since he and Ellen did it for Théâtre Sans Argent, and he’s not sure he ever will again.

Rupert pushing his fingers through his hair, untidier even than Geoffrey’s used to be, and still dark, the way Geoffrey’s was. 

Sometimes Geoffrey wonders if that was the start of the trouble with Ellen, that being with him made her feel old by association. Ageing’s hard for any actress, and that was part of it, for sure. _Come back_ , he wants to say to her. _Be Prospero. Be Brutus. Never mind if Helen Mirren or Harriet Walter got there first. Play whatever you want._ But it’s not just about her career. It’s what she sees in the mirror, and in the mirror of Geoffrey, who’s let his hair go completely grey, then silver, the way she can’t afford to do. He tried just once to talk to her about all that, but she yelled at him and threw things and called in sick the next day, curled up in bed and staring at the wall. He knew after that not to bring it up again.

It’s a bad joke, isn’t it? _You’re only as old as the man you feel_. So she goes on taking younger lovers, and he goes on working late. Because he wants to, needs to, not just because it makes things easier. And the lovers run their course, and she gets bored, she misses the way they know each other, Christ, he misses it too, and she comes back to him and says she’s sorry, for the millionth time, and they fall into bed again and have pretty good make-up sex, and things are calmer again until the next time she’s angry or unhappy about something. It’s not what either of them hoped for, but it works, kind of. Until _All’s Well That Ends Well_ , which looks like being the show that ended them.

It’s ironic that _All’s Well_ should be the production that opened up Geoffrey’s possible future in London, got him an in with Rupert Goold. Directing that show was a complete fucking nightmare from start to finish, including a radical reinterpretation by Geoffrey two-thirds through the run, of the kind Ellen had sworn to kill him if he ever subjected her to again.

She hadn’t killed him but she’d done the next best thing: she’d screwed Josh Burford, the actor playing Bertram. Which since Ellen was playing the Countess, gave their mother-son relationship entirely the wrong tone. 

“You’re not doing Hamlet now!” Geoffrey yelled at her (offstage, it’s true, but half the company heard it anyway). “Or fucking Oedipus!”

“You’ve got a fucking nerve, Geoffrey! I’ve seen what’s going on with you and Lucy, don’t think I haven’t.” 

Geoffrey wasn’t interested in Lucy except in trying to get some kind of halfway decent performance as Helena out of her, but it suited Ellen’s book to think so. Ellen needed drama, offstage as well as on. They’d been married ten years, and the novelty had long since worn off. Geoffrey was comfortable; Ellen was bored. They’d got to the end of all the Shakespeare parts she wanted to play, so it was either repeating the ones she’d already done or moving on to the mothers. They fought almost all the time now, worse than they’d ever fought before. Doing _Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf_ together didn’t exorcize the demons; it just made things worse. She’d taken a part in a TV series again for a while after that, and by the time she decided to quit there was nothing for her in the new season but the Countess.

“At least it’s not the Nurse in R&J,” Geoffrey had said, which Ellen chose to interpret as a taunt, though it wasn’t meant to be one. They hadn’t communicated this badly since the _Macbeth_ season in New Burbage. That had ended well, against all the odds; Geoffrey had no such hopes this time.

The hell of it was, the new version of _All’s Well_ worked, whatever the cost in personal terms. Watching the fourth show after his radical restaging, Geoffrey found himself in tears at the reunion of Helena and the Countess: “ _Oh my dear mother, do I see you living?_ ” No matter that Ellen hated Lucy and blamed her for the breakdown of relations with Geoffrey. It didn’t show in the performance. Josh’s awkwardness around Ellen was actually perfect, too, for the stiltedness of Bertram’s forced reunion with Helena, the marriage he’d never wanted in the first place. He still didn’t play up the homosociality with Parolles enough, but Michael brought enough of that to Parolles for both of them, so it didn’t matter.

That was the night Rupert came backstage – the first Geoffrey knew that he was even in the country.

“Sorry,” Rupert said, “I should have asked if it was OK to come round.”

“No, it’s fine,” Geoffrey said, repressing a shudder. He was glad he hadn’t known in advance – the redirected show still felt too raw and vulnerable for that kind of scrutiny from Rupert of all people.

“Can you have dinner with me tomorrow?” Rupert asked. “I have a proposition I’d like to discuss with you.”

“OK,” Geoffrey said, caught off balance and not really thinking. 

Tomorrow was Sunday, the one evening he had at home with Ellen. Always assuming she was there, which couldn’t be taken for granted at the moment. But as luck would have it, she’d been expecting to be there and planning to make dinner, and blew up when Geoffrey told her about Rupert’s invitation.

“I’m sure he’d be happy to see you too.” 

It was the wrong thing to say, but they’d reached the point where there were only wrong things to say.

“You said yes without asking me!”

“I thought you’d be off banging Josh, as usual!”

Ellen threw a plate across the kitchen and burst into tears. Things not going so well with Josh, it seemed. Geoffrey hugged her, and she let him, but she wouldn’t let him try to fix things.

“I’ll call Rupert. I’ll reschedule.”

“No,” she said. “You _want_ to see him by yourself, or you wouldn’t have said yes in the first place.”

The way things were with her, Geoffrey couldn’t really dispute it. He was too weary even to try. That looked like it would prolong the fight, but then Josh called and Ellen made cooing noises and apparently it was all back on again, if it had ever really been off.

“So you see,” Ellen said, with intolerable false brightness, “it’s just as well you didn’t ask Rupert if you could bring the little woman.”

“Fuck!” Geoffrey tore his hair with frustration.

“Don’t yell at me!” Ellen snapped. “I’m going to bed.”

“Fine,” Geoffrey said wearily. “You do that.”

So Sunday evening was dinner with Rupert, and an invitation to London in September to workshop some ideas for a _Troilus_ in fall 2018. Ellen would be angry if he said yes, but everything he did made her angry now. He’d given up trying to get it right. He’d only be gone for ten days this time. How bad could it be?

Pretty bad, as it turned out. When they met at the theatre next morning, she would barely look at him. 

“I don’t think I can do this any more, Geoffrey.” 

“Do what?” he asked, numbly aware of what was coming.

“Living with you. Working with you. Living with you and working with you.”

Useless to ask “Are you breaking up with me?” but he did it anyway. He’d need to go home after the show tonight and pack a bag, again.

“I don’t know,” Ellen said. “But I need, I need a break from you. When the run finishes. I want to go away.”

Almost every time they’d broken up before, she’d stayed put and thrown him out, knowing he couldn’t go far when there was nowhere for him to go. A props closet in New Burbage, or the green-room at the revived Théâtre Sans Argent. This felt different, more serious.

“OK,” he said, defeated. “Whatever you say, Ellen.”

“I don’t need your permission!”

“No,” he said, “you don’t. Are you going somewhere in particular?”

“I don’t know yet.” She stared past him at the noticeboard in the corridor with its palimpsest of flyers and cards. “I don’t think I want to tell you anyway, Geoffrey.”

He supposes the next thing will be a letter from the lawyers, unless Ellen changes her mind again. It hurts, not having the nightly calls with her that he’d got used to having if they were apart. Not being able to tell your day to the person you loved, to hear about how things were back home. 

If he imagines the house without Ellen he can only see it as empty, though Ruth from the young company must be there, house-sitting to feed the cat and water the plants. 

He feels empty too, not mattering to anyone in particular, adrift in his own life. What have the last twelve years been, if they can come apart so easily? That’s an exaggeration, he knows: there’s been more to those years than marriage, and anyway there’s nothing easy about this. But that’s how it feels. Like she just up and walked away, leaving nothing behind her. The nothing that he is.

His own words from long ago to Terry echo in his head: _Who are you now, without her? You are uncomfortable inside your own skin. You have become a stranger even to yourself._

 

The National Film Theatre is the BFI now, but the bookstalls in front of it look just the same. He wouldn’t be surprised to find some of the books he browsed and didn’t buy back then, but it feels too much like hard work to get up and look, and what would he do with them anyway? More baggage to carry around with him.

On impulse he goes into the National Theatre and asks if there are any returns for tonight’s performance of _Follies_. Rupert and Kate had raved about it all through dinner (of course they’d had front row circle seats for opening night), insisting that he had to see it – “It’s the best thing in London!” Not much good saying that, since neither they nor anyone else could pull strings to get him in. The show’s booked solid through the end of November and the queue for day seats reportedly starts at dawn. There won’t be anything, but at least he can tell Rupert and Kate he tried. 

It’s not true that he hates musicals, even if the idea of working on one with Darren Nichols in New Burbage sent his stomach through the floor. He enjoyed the West End production of _Follies_ Hugh took him to in ’87, when Geoffrey was back in London for that TV pilot that never got made (and oh, the bitterness there’d been at the Admiral when he told them he was going to the opening night: “Honestly, Geoff, it’s _wasted_ on you. Some people would kill for a ticket!”). What he remembers most clearly about that performance now is Diana Rigg’s magnificent striptease in Ah! But Underneath. That, and Hugh rushing up to Stephen Sondheim in the street afterwards and completely blanking Cameron Mackintosh because he didn’t recognize him... 

“You're in luck!” the young box office assistant says. She gives Geoffrey a dazzling smile.

“You're kidding,” Geoffrey says, blinking at her in disbelief.

“No, seriously, one just this minute came back on the system,” the young woman says, gesturing at her colleague who's on the phone. “For tonight.”

“So, to confirm, you're returning Stalls F14 and keeping F15?” the colleague says to the caller. “Thank you, sir; the refund's going through to your account now.” He hits Enter on his keyboard.

“Oh wow,” the young woman says, looking at the screen. “F14, that's the seat Sondheim had for the first preview.”

“You're a miracle-worker,” Geoffrey says extravagantly, and she blushes to the tips of her ears. 

Overdoing the charm, Tennant. Still, it worked. And now he has a couple of hours to kill before the show starts, and no idea what to do with himself.

He doesn’t feel like going back to the studio, so he wanders down the backstreets to The Cut, past the Old Vic and the Young Vic, wondering who’s going to take over from David Lan when he goes. The Old Vic’s showing a play based on Bob Dylan songs, the Young Vic has Juliet Stevenson in _Wings_. Another revival 30 years on, like _Follies_. He mooches for a while in The Bookshop Theatre, which he doesn’t remember from last time, rummaging through a box of old programmes. They have a good range of playtexts and other theatre books, secondhand and new, but nothing he wants to buy. The Chinese restaurant over the road feels like the kind of place he’d have gone to back then. It’s not Yong’s, but it’ll do. 

It’s not time yet to go back to the NT, so he wanders back up to the South Bank and along the river past Blackfriars, another shiny new thing, to Tate Modern in the old Bankside power station, and down to The Globe. Last time he was here, the theatre was still Sam Wanamaker’s crazy project, a decade away from its opening. Now _Much Ado_ and _King Lear_ are in rep with some new play called _Boudica_. It’s all change here too, with Michelle Terry taking over as Artistic Director next season. Not easy to go from being an actor to running a cultural institution, however passionate you are about Shakespeare. Geoffrey grimaces in sympathy. At least she won’t have to deal with the ghost of Emma Rice popping up every five minutes to tell her how to do her job. 

He sits for a while in the gardens near the OXO tower, wondering who Bernie Spain was and nearly falling asleep in the early evening sunshine. When he looks at his watch, it’s time to go into the theatre. 

His phone vibrates with an incoming call: it’s Rupert, wanting to confirm arrangements for Monday morning.

“Sorry about the background noise,” Geoffrey says, “I’m at the National.”

“Seeing _Oslo_?”

“Seeing _Follies_ ,” Geoffrey says, and grins at the startled exclamation that gets him. 

“Your luck must be in,” Rupert says. 

Maybe he’s right. God knows Geoffrey could do with some good luck for a change.

He goes on thinking that, right up until the moment he takes his seat in the Olivier and looks at the man sitting in F15.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Geoffrey says.

“And hello to you, Geoffrey,” says Darren Nichols.

 

***

Darren is still recognizably Darren, though he's not wearing a scarf of any kind and his glasses don't seem to have been designed by someone determined to make a point about the aesthetics of ugliness. He's soberly dressed, but it's not the bland corporate disguise he wore for his appointment as AD in New Burbage. It's a softer look altogether; that slate-grey spotted shirt with the charcoal-grey jacket suits him. So does the touch of grey at his temples, come to think of it. If it wasn't for the fact that he's, y'know, _Darren_ , Geoffrey would be thinking of asking the guy if he’d like to get a drink after the show, since there's no interval.

“So,” he says, because he's got to say something rather than go on staring, “what's Mr Nichols doing in London?”

“ _Auditioning_ ,” Darren says heavily, and winces. “For a job I didn't get. I gather there'll be an announcement the week after next.”

“Oh,” says Geoffrey. “Er - bad luck, I guess.”

“It wasn't an entirely wasted journey,” Darren says with a shrug. “ENO want me to direct _Kiss Me Kate_.”

“Oh Christ,” Geoffrey says, before he can stop himself.

“Come on, Geoffrey, that show is a quintessential fusion of mid-twentieth-century sexism and late capitalist fetishization of Shakespeare that's simply ripe for deconstruction. Overripe, really, but that's part of its seedy charm. Surely even you can see that?”

Getting into a fight with Darren Nichols about Cole Porter is the last thing Geoffrey needs right now, especially when he half agrees with him about the show, so he doesn't rise to the bait.

“And you?” Darren says, after a pause that wouldn't seem out of place in a Pinter play. “What are you doing in London?”

“A workshop with Rupert Goold,” Geoffrey says. “He saw _All's Well_ in Montréal, and he wants me to do _Troilus_ for the Almeida.”

“ _Troilus and Cressida_ ,” Darren muses. “Not a good play for Ellen, is it?”

Geoffrey's turn to wince. 

“Ellen and I are on a break,” he says, and could kick himself for giving Darren the ammunition.

“Oh,” Darren says, and then, awkwardly, “I'm sorry to hear that.”

He seems to be trying to be _nice_ , which is frankly unsettling, and too bizarre to process. Anyway, there isn't time. The house lights are finally going down. Geoffrey settles himself in his seat and tries not to think about the fact that he's got to spend the next two and a quarter hours in close proximity to Darren Nichols. Like the proverb says, be careful what you wish for.

 

***

There are moments in theatre when everything comes together and the beauty of it is almost unbearable. Geoffrey’s had that as a director, rarely enough that he knows not to take it for granted, not ever; more rarely still as an audience member. It happens to him here before a note’s been sung. A crescendo in the orchestra on a rising theme; the Follies sign lighting up on the top note as the glittering ghosts strike a perfect attitude on the revolve. _Jesus_. There are tears in his eyes, something that’s almost a sob in his throat, and the show’s barely started. He’s going to be a wreck by the end.

“Imelda was magnificent in _Who’s Afraid_ , but she’ll break your heart as Sally,” Kate had said. 

He’s prepared for that, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, it’s Janie Dee’s Phyllis who catches him under the heart. Her desperation about growing old and not wanting this to be all there is to life is too like Ellen’s. There’s an echo of Ellen’s contempt and anger, too: when she sings Could I Leave You, he can hardly breathe. _Could I bury my rage with a boy half your age in the grass? Bet your ass! But I’ve done that already, or didn’t you know, love? Tell me how could I leave, when I left long ago, love?_

Oh, he knew all right. Everybody knew. That was half the point. 

Geoffrey knows how shows change as you get older, how the same play can be utterly transformed because you’re watching it from a different place in your own life, but this one still takes him by surprise. It’s not just because the version he saw in 1987 was the one with CamMack’s imposed happy ending. More, that when he saw that show he was the same age as the young ghosts. Now he’s up there with Ben and Phyllis and Buddy and Sally and the rest of them, with the regrets and the what-ifs, the roads he didn’t take and the roads he did. 

All of the characters are broken in different ways, though some of them are holding together better than others. Buddy’s inability to love and be loved by the same person, a failure of self-acceptance. What it’s like to be tied to someone who will never see you as good enough, what it does to you to feel that’s what you deserve. 

He misses Ah! But Underneath, but he can see why this production’s gone back to Phyllis’s original number, The Story of Lucy and Jessie. The divided selves make more sense here, when the ghosts are present all the time, and there’s a kind of healing in the way Phyllis gets to dance with her younger self. It’s triumphant, where Buddy dancing with his younger ghost self in The Right Girl was bitter. Some of that is just Janie Dee’s magic – Christ, she must be close to his age, or Ellen’s, but she dances like a 25-year-old. As if she becomes young again. 

Would he want to be young again if he could go back? He’s not sure. 

The Loveland sequence gets darker as it goes on. Sally as a washed-up diva, blank-eyed and stunned in Losing My Mind. Ben, so hollow and so full of self-loathing in Live, Laugh, Love, breaking down and grinding to a halt, apologising for forgetting his lines, then lashing out in anger when they laugh at him. 

Some of the audience shift uneasily in their seats, uncertain what’s real and what’s performance. Geoffrey knows it’s performance, but it still brings him out in a cold sweat. Was this how it felt for the audience, watching him fall apart in _Hamlet_? He thought he’d seen the last of that particular nightmare when he had to go on as Kent; this isn’t his madness, but it’s close enough to make his stomach knot with tension. He grips the armrest and tries to focus on his breathing. 

Darren’s hand brushes against his, as if by accident. He’s not sure it is an accident. The touch is casual but warm, grounding him in the moment. Geoffrey breathes more easily, and the knots in his stomach loosen slightly.

It’s hard to adjust to reality after the performance ends. People are clambering over him to get to the aisle, and he’s just sitting there, blinking. Darren hasn’t moved either.

“Christ, I need a drink,” says Geoffrey. His hands are shaking.

“Fuck, yes,” Darren says. He clears his throat. “I have some excellent Scotch at my place, if you’d care to join me.”

“OK,” says Geoffrey, though it’s not what he’d thought he was going to say. “Thank you, Darren.”

 

***

Geoffrey’s still too dazed to talk much till they’re out of the theatre and walking along the South Bank. Darren, of course, is perfectly capable of talking enough for both of them, and has more opinions about Sondheim than any reasonable person could ever need, beginning with an impromptu lecture on the trajectory from Rose’s Turn in _Gypsy_ to Ben’s breakdown in _Follies_.

“When did you become such a Sondheim nerd?” Geoffrey demands.

“After _East Hastings_ I decided to explore the classic musicals,” Darren says, as if this should be obvious. “My postdramatic production of _Sweeney Todd_ was a triumph in Berlin. They wanted me to stage _Assassins_ , but there’s no point in doing that show outside the US. It’s the same problem with doing _Road Show_ : the whole point is to confront America with its own toxic Weltanschauung…”

The rest of this lecture lasts them all the way to Darren’s Airbnb.

“Don’t tell me you’re still carrying that thing around!” Geoffrey gestures at the framed Bosch poster on the wall over the leopard-print sofa. 

“No,” Darren says, and grimaces. “My PA’s curious idea of humour, booking this place. It’s really not my décor, darling – not any more. But convenient for the interview down the road.”

“Jesus,” Geoffrey says, belatedly putting two and two together. “You were in for –” _the Young Vic job_ , he’s about to say.

“They went in a different direction,” Darren says, with infinite disdain. “Unlike the other place down the road.”

“The _Globe_?” Geoffrey scoffs. As if Darren would have a cat’s chance in hell of getting that.

“I was _approached_ ,” Darren says. “I declined. After the Emma Rice debacle, it was quite clear that they had no interest in committing to experimental theatre.”

Evidently the London theatre world is more fucked than Geoffrey thought. “Now I _really_ need a drink.”

“Geoffrey, Geoffrey, Geoffrey. Two decades into the 21st century and still thinking your way is the only way.” 

Darren hands him a large tumbler of – yes indeed, excellent Scotch.

“Thanks,” Geoffrey says, as the good burn of it spreads through him.

“So, _Troilus_ at the Almeida.” 

“Workshop on Monday.” Geoffrey’s stomach knots again. He takes another pull of Scotch.

“Find your Thersites and the rest will follow,” Darren says airily.

He’d played it in university, in that godawful third-year Vietnam War themed production Geoffrey refused to be in. Of course he thinks the whole play is about him.

“When was the last time you directed Shakespeare? Not counting musicals,” Geoffrey adds, since Darren’s obviously about to launch into his speech on why _Love’s Whip_ was a misunderstood work of genius and not a steaming pile of horseshit.

“You know I’m right, Geoffrey, you just don’t want to admit it.”

This is all the more annoying because it’s true. Darren always did have some good sense, buried under all the scarves and attitude. 

“Shut up about _Troilus_ , will you?” Geoffrey grumbles into his Scotch, and Darren smirks.

It’s weird to see him without the scarves and the glitter, the mismatched patterns and fabrics. They seemed so much a part of him that Geoffrey couldn’t have imagined him without them. There’s nothing now to distract you from his features, or from his body. Was that what it was? A deflection or misdirection, from someone insecure about his looks. This way, there’s nothing to stop you looking right at him, and he’s definitely good to look at when he’s not pulling ridiculous faces. He seems comfortable in his own skin in a way the old Darren never was, which adds to the attraction. Even the old Darren had a peculiar sort of appeal if you could get past the carapace, but he was so fucking defended that getting past it was practically impossible. And the one time Geoffrey did get past it, when they were all the way younger, was that disastrous night in their first term at university, after which they’d sworn never to attempt having sex with each other again.

If their younger selves could see them now, what would they think? Would they be horrified at what they’ve become, like the ghosts in _Follies_? 

Darren shuts up about _Troilus_ , which is a blessing, and goes back to talking about musicals, which isn’t. He seems to have contemplated directing every show in Sondheim’s back catalogue at some point or other, though for various reasons the world has mostly been spared whatever outrages he was planning to perpetrate: _Sunday in the Park with George_ is “too accessible”, _Passion_ is “ultimately flawed by sentimentality”, and so on. They speculate idly on Marianne Elliott’s plan for a gender-swapped _Company_ in 2018, and the conversation gradually works its way back to _Follies_ , which they agree on more than Geoffrey would have expected. 

“Cooke’s right, of course; every theatre has ghosts,” Darren says, as the conversation winds down. 

Afterwards, Geoffrey blames the jetlag and the good Scotch for what he says next, though Darren’s matter-of-factness is part of it too.

“I saw Oliver. His ghost, I mean.”

He braces himself for Darren to make some crack about his sanity, but it doesn’t come.

“The table read for Hamlet,” Darren says. It’s not a question.

“You saw him too?” 

“No, darling,” Darren says. “I’m not the one he’d be haunting.”

“You don’t seem surprised,” Geoffrey says. He’s shaken by how much it affects him, being believed.

Darren shrugs. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio–”

“You would have been a truly terrible Hamlet,” Geoffrey says, because if he doesn’t say something obnoxious he might actually start to cry.

“I’ll have you know my Hamlet was magnificent. The Schwartzwald puppet colony had never seen anything like it.”

“Oh God, you’re ridiculous,” Geoffrey says, with a surge of relief that’s almost affection. In a world turned upside down, there’s a weird comfort in Darren’s familiar absurdity.

“Have some more Scotch,” Darren says, and grins.

Geoffrey should say no, but what the hell, he’s here now. And it is very good Scotch.

“I thought I was going crazy again,” Geoffrey says.

“And were you?”

“Not that time, no.” He hesitates, then says “Charles Kingman saw him too. When he – towards the end.”

Darren is silent for a while; Geoffrey can’t read his expression. “Do you still – ?”

“Not since _Lear_ ,” Geoffrey says. 

“That must be a relief,” Darren says. “Or a loss.”

“Both,” says Geoffrey, trying not to let his surprise show too obviously. Empathy was never Darren’s strong suit.

It’s strange, being with him like this – you get moments that are pure Darren, and then other moments where you see a different person. A nicer one.

“I went to therapy,” Geoffrey blurts out. “Well, Oliver and I did. To begin with.”

Darren can be forgiven for looking at him a little oddly. “How did your therapist deal with that?”

“He said I was really good at the empty chair thing.”

Darren snorts, and then says “Sorry.”

“No, it was funny. Kind of. Afterwards. Harder to do it for real, when he’d gone.”

“It’s a tough exercise,” Darren says, like it’s something he knows, not just something he’s saying to be polite. As if polite was ever in his repertoire.

Therapy would make sense of the changes in him. It feels like he’s also learned how to be careful when he wants to be. It’s odd, and slightly touching, that he seems to want that with Geoffrey. The silence that falls between them is surprisingly comfortable. 

Hardly any traffic noise outside now, though the window is open. Geoffrey looks at his watch and does a double take.

“Christ, how did it get to be that late? I should get a cab, I guess – or will the Tube still be running?”

“I don’t know,” Darren says. He gives Geoffrey a look that makes him feel hot and breathless. “Or you could stay.”

Which shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is. In one sense it’s where the evening’s been heading ever since Geoffrey said yes to a drink, and god knows he wants to. But still: _Darren_.

“I seem to remember something about a vow,” Geoffrey says. His throat is dry.

“Is that a no?” Darren asks, carefully neutral.

It probably should be, but it isn’t. Geoffrey swallows hard. “Vows were made to be broken, apparently.” 

“I will show you a chamber with a bed,” Darren begins.

“Darren, I swear to god if you quote fucking _Troilus_ I will throttle you –” 

Darren stops his mouth with a kiss, which is probably a quotation too.  It's a good kiss - startlingly good - and Geoffrey gives in to it.

It’s a million miles from that clumsy teeth-jarring adolescent kiss, sticky with the dreadful vodka-and-blackcurrant punch from the _Measure_ cast party, the last thing Geoffrey remembers clearly from their horribly misguided coupling. That kiss had been so bad they should have known to stop right there before things got worse, but his hand was already in Darren’s pants, the mark of Darren’s teeth already on his neck, and they were too drunk. Too drunk to fuck, too drunk not to try.

This time, even with the good Scotch, they’re going to remember the details in the morning. This one can’t be written off as “Christ, was I drunk last night!” 

Darren pushes one hand into Geoffrey’s hair and skims the other down his back and the curve of his ass. “ _Mmm_.” His tongue strokes Geoffrey’s, and then he pulls away, just as Geoffrey is really getting into it. Geoffrey makes a disappointed noise that absolutely is not a whimper, and Darren laughs and kisses him harder. He goes on kissing until Geoffrey’s dizzy with it, clinging on to Darren and moaning into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” he says when Darren lets go of him again. He doesn’t say _Where did you learn to kiss like that?_ , because talking is the last thing he needs from Darren’s mouth right now. 

Darren kisses him, light and teasing, and nips at Geoffrey’s lower lip. Then he gives him a slow insinuating kiss that turns fierce when Geoffrey kisses him back, kisses Darren as if he’s starving for it. He wants this, he’s shaking with how much he wants this, pushing his fingers into Darren’s hair. 

“Bed,” Geoffrey says, when they pull apart for air. 

“Mmm,” Darren agrees. He takes Geoffrey by the hips and pushes him towards the bedroom (bright orange walls and leopard-print bedding, Jesus, what is with these people?).

A flurry of undressing and they tumble into bed together, Geoffrey flat on his back and Darren on top of him. Christ, that feels good. It’s been so long since he was in bed with a man. Not since Hugh, but it feels like yesterday. As Phyllis says to Ben about the mirror number, _it’s curious what our bodies won’t forget_.

Darren kisses his neck and fondles him, flicks his tongue across Geoffrey’s nipple and bites at it. _Fuck_ yes. Geoffrey’s cock jumps in Darren’s hand, and Darren licks his neck and tugs at his earlobe with his teeth. Geoffrey moans. Darren squeezes and strokes Geoffrey’s cock, twisting his fingers and curving his palm over the head. He kisses his way down Geoffrey’s chest and stomach and scratches his stubble against the sensitive skin of Geoffrey’s inner thighs. The slight discomfort is perfect, sharpening the edge of desire.

It’s startling how much better Darren is at judging his effects sexually than he is theatrically. Either he’s spent more time fucking than directing or he knows perfectly well how much is too much in the theatre and just doesn’t care – 

“Geoffrey,” Darren says with dangerous gentleness, “if you’re not enjoying this I can stop.”

“Sorry,” Geoffrey says. “I am. Enjoying it.”

“Sure?” Darren’s lips are almost but not quite touching Geoffrey’s cock. He flicks his tongue against the very tip of it.

“Oh, fuck,” Geoffrey says. “Yes, OK? More, please, Darren, don’t stop.”

“Not your most convincing delivery, darling,” says Darren, but he takes Geoffrey’s cock in his mouth anyway.

Geoffrey sighs and moans and stops thinking altogether. Darren coaxes sounds from him that he can’t control, cries and whimpers and incoherent babbling, _so good fuck please oh god_. It’s too much, he’s too close – 

“Wait,” he gasps, and pulls Darren’s hair.

Darren lets him go and looks up. “Are you OK?”

“Yes,” Geoffrey says with difficulty. “Just. Finish too. Soon if you go on. Doing that.”

“Oh well,” Darren says with a wicked grin, “if you’d prefer something more lingering,” and he proceeds to give Geoffrey the slowest, most deliciously torturous blowjob he’s had in his entire life. 

Geoffrey’s flat-out begging long before it ends. He knows this one’s going to stay with him, that the next time he jerks off it’ll be Darren he thinks about, and Christ, if that isn’t the thought that pushes him to the edge – 

“I can’t – I’m going to – oh, fuck, Darren–”

Darren pulls off and finishes him with a couple of quick strokes, and Geoffrey comes, shuddering and crying out. Darren holds him while he shakes, and murmurs something in German. Geoffrey’s not going to ask what it means; he’s not at all sure he wants to know.

When his vision clears, he’s fully expecting Darren to look insufferably smug – he has a right to, after all. Actually Darren has a goofy grin on his face, and looks so much like his younger self in the Godspell snap that it shakes Geoffrey. Christ, it’s like being in bed with one of the young ghosts from _Follies_. This isn’t what Geoffrey needs at all, but he can’t back out of it now. That spectacular blowjob creates a sense of obligation, but it’s also a gauntlet thrown down and he’s not going to leave it lying there. Darren’s not the only one with something to prove.

Geoffrey pinches Darren’s nipple, hard. The goofy look vanishes abruptly, replaced by a keen hunger. Geoffrey shoves his other hand between their bodies and grasps Darren’s cock. It’s hot and heavy in Geoffrey’s hand, and already wet at the tip. 

“Fuck, Geoffrey, please–” Darren thrusts up into Geoffrey’s fist.

 _That’s more like it_. Geoffrey tightens his grip and sets about making Darren Nichols lose his fucking mind.

Darren obviously likes it rough, so Geoffrey lets him have that for a while, works him fast and hard till he’s shaking and gasping, close to the edge. Then he lets go, ignoring Darren’s protests and curses, and sets his teeth in Darren’s neck. He works his way down Darren’s body from collarbone to chest to stomach to thighs, a string of bites each fiercer than the last. Darren’s not all bones and angles any more – the softening effect of middle age, which Geoffrey finds oddly comforting. The duelling scar on his thigh is still there, though; Geoffrey runs his tongue along it, relishing Darren’s sharp intake of breath. He gives Darren one quick sharp bite there and then moves his mouth just above the scar. He sucks and bites and licks, teasing relentlessly at the tender skin as Darren squirms and moans and pulls Geoffrey’s hair and comes without warning, pulsing over his stomach and chest.

“Your compulsion to mark me seems to be undiminished,” Darren says, when he’s more or less got his breath back.

“It’s only the third time,” Geoffrey says. “In, what, 33 years? I wouldn’t call that a compulsion.”

“Glad to see you’re keeping score.”

“Fuck off, Darren.”

Darren laughs, then yawns. “Time to sleep?”

“I guess.”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“It’s the jetlag,” Geoffrey says. 

“When did you get in?”

“Yesterday morning.”

Darren sighs theatrically. “Obviously I need to work harder to tire you out.”

He slides his hand between Geoffrey’s thighs and kisses him again.

It’s intoxicating, the smell of Darren’s skin, the warm weight of him in Geoffrey’s arms, the slow tease of the kiss, his tongue stroking Geoffrey’s – Christ, Geoffrey’s getting hard again already. Darren fondles and squeezes his ass, parting his cheeks slightly. Geoffrey groans, and Darren laughs and takes his hands away. Bastard. 

“Don’t stop,” Geoffrey protests. “Fuck.” He pushes his erection against Darren’s thigh.

Darren makes a satisfied noise that might actually be crowing, and reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. “Yes?”

“I – oh.” Geoffrey shivers, his mouth gone dry with a mixture of lust and nervousness. “It’s been a while.”

“Fucking, or being fucked?”

“Either,” Geoffrey admits. “Anything, really.”

Darren puts the lube back down and kisses him again, until Geoffrey sighs and pushes his hands into Darren’s hair. It’s good, it’s lovely, kissing and kissing, Darren’s hands stroking and squeezing his ass, and he _wants_ – Darren’s fingers trace a line from the base of Geoffrey’s cock, caressing his balls and pressing lightly against his perineum. Geoffrey squirms, caught between pleasure and frustration.

“Mmm?” Darren nuzzles the point of his jaw and kisses him behind the ear.

“Oh, fuck,” Geoffrey says articulately.

“You’re going to have to give me more direction than that, Geoffrey.” Darren bites his neck, just hard enough to make him gasp.

“I – Christ, I can’t think with you doing that.”

Darren sits back on his haunches and looks down at him, quizzical and smug.

“I hate you,” Geoffrey grumbles.

“Of course you do,” Darren says, dry as a bone. 

Still, there’s a flicker of pain in his expression that makes Geoffrey grasp his hand and press a soft clinging kiss to his palm. It’s the nearest he’s going to get to an apology, but it seems to be enough. Darren exhales shakily and caresses Geoffrey’s face with surprising gentleness. 

“What do you want, Geoffrey?” He runs his hand down Geoffrey’s chest and stomach to brush against his cock, lets his touch linger there before tracing the line back to his ass again. “I don’t have your impressively short refractory period, I’m afraid. So if you want to be fucked, it’s toys, fingers or tongue.”

“Jesus,” Geoffrey says. His hips jerk.

“Oho,” says Darren, with a glint in his eye that makes Geoffrey breathless. “On your front, then.”

Geoffrey rolls over, groaning. Darren grips his wrists and bites the nape of his neck. 

“Fuck, Darren.”

“Mmhmm. Best cure for jetlag I know.” 

Darren lays a trail of kisses and licks and bites down his spine as Geoffrey gasps and writhes and rubs himself against the mattress.

They don’t get as far as toys, because Darren’s clever fingers and wicked tongue have Geoffrey coming harder than he would have thought possible, so soon after the first time. He’s too weak after that to do anything but whimper with Darren holding him through the aftershocks. When Darren comes back from the bathroom to clean him up, Geoffrey’s almost asleep.

“Sorry,” he says, squirming a bit at the cool dampness of the washcloth. “Should I – do you want –?”

Darren laughs and strokes his back. “Go to sleep, Geoffrey. I’ll still be here in the morning.”

 

***

Geoffrey wakes up to find a mug of coffee inches from his nose, and Darren watching him with an expression Geoffrey can’t read. He’s wearing something far too Noel Coward to be a robe or a housecoat; clearly old habits die hard. Geoffrey blinks at it.

“Good morning, Geoffrey.”

“Um,” Geoffrey says. He drinks the coffee, which thankfully tastes as good as it smells, and discovers that he doesn’t feel as bad as he expected. “Thanks.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I could eat a horse,” Geoffrey says. “I expect you have one somewhere.”

“Oh, very droll,” says Darren. He’s going for withering, but obviously trying not to laugh.

Geoffrey pokes him in the ribs and there’s an undignified scuffle that threatens to turn into something more, until Geoffrey’s stomach rumbles ferociously.

“That’s it!” Darren says, mock-outraged. “I can’t make love with that racket going on. Breakfast it is.”

 _Make love_ is a bit unexpected, but Geoffrey’s too hungry to think about that.

“There’s a spare robe in the bathroom,” Darren says.

“Thanks.” It’s warmer than he thought mid-September in England would be, but not that warm. And eating breakfast naked with Darren looking at him like that would be difficult, to say the least… 

The kitchen is mercifully free of leopard prints but has a neon yellow breakfast bar, bright red cupboard doors and black and silver tiled walls. It’s just as well Geoffrey doesn’t have a hangover. 

“Your cooking’s improved,” Geoffrey says, finishing a plate of the best scrambled eggs he’s had in a while.

“Amongst other things,” says Darren. Geoffrey can forgive him for preening himself; he’s certainly earned it.

“Do you remember–” Geoffrey begins, but a blast of _Vissi d’arte_ from Darren’s phone interrupts him.

“Sorry, I need to take this,” Darren says, and starts talking German. 

The call doesn’t seem to go well, though the only bit Geoffrey understands is “Geoffrey. Geoffrey Tennant – _ja_. Life is fucking nuts, isn’t it?”

“Your date for last night?” Geoffrey asks, when the call’s over.

Darren nods. “Poor boy’s still stranded at the airport in Berlin. Baggage handlers’ strike.”

“I’m not sorry he couldn’t make it,” Geoffrey says. It may be selfish but it’s true.

“Nor am I,” says Darren. “He’s very pretty, but somewhat lacking in conversation.”

“Doesn’t matter in bed, does it?” Geoffrey says. He is absolutely not jealous of this pretty boy, because that would be ridiculous. It’s none of his business who Darren fucks.

“No,” Darren says, “it doesn’t. But for the record, darling, you’re more fun in bed too.”

“Not too vanilla for your tastes?” 

“Oh, but there’s an art to making the most of vanilla, don’t you think?” Darren says, with a smirk.

“Stop fishing for compliments,” Geoffrey says, and then, because he can’t help himself, “you know that was fucking fantastic.”

“One of my better reviews,” says Darren. “I should get it framed. But if it’s notes you’re after–”

“I’m not!” Geoffrey says hastily.

“– there was nothing I’d want to change about last night.”

“Nothing?”

“Now who’s fishing?” Darren says. “Nothing.”

Geoffrey’s too taken aback to point out Darren’s more or less admitted he was fishing before. Too taken aback to say anything at all.

“And if you knew how often I’d thought about this, you’d be surprised,” Darren says.

“You have?” says Geoffrey, bewildered, because he really hasn’t.

“Yes,” Darren says, wincing slightly, and kisses him.

The sweetness of the kiss is as unexpected as the declaration. Darren being Darren, of course, he retreats into irony the next minute, sending the whole thing up with an exaggeratedly dramatic sigh. “ _Oh Cressida, how often have I wished me thus!_ ”

“Oh,” Geoffrey says. He ought to have some snappy riposte here, but his brain’s still struggling to process the information. So many things look different now. “Oh,” he says again. He doesn’t know if he should hold on or let go.

Darren sighs again, less theatrically this time, and steps back from the embrace.

“More coffee?”

“Sure,” Geoffrey says distractedly.

“What were you going to ask, before Josef called?”

“I – er–” It feels cruel to say it now.

“Do I remember how terrible we were in bed, that one time?” Darren asks.

“Yeah,” Geoffrey says into his coffee cup.

“Well, no,” Darren says. “Not in detail. I do recall that we were both spectacularly drunk. Major embarrassment. Minor injuries. Hence the solemn vow the morning after.”

That’s pretty much all Geoffrey remembers about the sex thing either. “My first time,” he says ruefully. “With a guy, I mean.”

“Mine too,” Darren says. “With anyone.”

“Shit,” says Geoffrey.

“Virginity is an empty signifier, Geoffrey; it’s not important. Also, first times are always terrible.”

“But you–” He can’t work out how that sentence is supposed to end.

“I wanted it to happen again with you, yes,” Darren says. “And now it has, so, thank you, Geoffrey. One’s adolescent fantasies rarely live up to expectation.”

“Your jetlag cure worked, by the way,” Geoffrey jokes, after a silence that goes on altogether too long for comfort. “It should be available on prescription.” 

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating about my morals, Geoffrey–”

“Sorry,” Geoffrey mutters, going red.

“If you want to have sex again, just say so.” Darren grins evilly.

“Oh, fuck you.” He should have known Darren was teasing.

“Is that a yes?”

It probably shouldn’t be. There’s Ellen, and there’s Darren’s boy, whatever he is to him; and there’s the way Darren gets under Geoffrey’s skin, always has. The way Darren pushes his buttons, like nobody else.

Geoffrey shoves Darren against the fridge and kisses him till his knees buckle.

“ _That’s_ a yes,” he says.

They stare at each other, breathing hard.

“Bed,” Darren says fiercely. “ _Now_ , Geoffrey.” 

That should _not_ be hot, damn it. “Bossy,” Geoffrey says, the blood pounding in his ears. “Bossy and _conventional_ , Mr Nichols.”

“I’m under strict instructions from my very expensive chiropractor,” Darren says. “No more fucking on kitchen counters.”

“Braggart,” says Geoffrey, and tugs at the belt of Darren’s dressing-gown. “Come on then, let’s to bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Kalypso and theicescholar for beta-reading and to Kalypso for suggesting the perfect title; to Kate_Lear, Owl_by_Night and second_skin for many conversations about all this; to brumeier, DesireeArmfeldt, lilliburlero, mekare, Ride_Forever, smallhobbit, my fellow Shoobies at ushobwri and the dsc6d chat group for their encouragement, and to everyone who commented on the backstory fics for this 'verse, either on AO3, on Dreamwidth or at fan_flashworks. 
> 
> the visual prompt which turned this from a fan_flashworks drabble into my longest fic for some time was [this post](http://sabelmouse.tumblr.com/post/171698594310/don-mckellar-aging-well) by sabelmouse in the slings and arrows tag on tumblr.
> 
> with the exception of Geoffrey's Troilus and Darren's Kiss Me Kate, all the London productions mentioned in this fic are real ones. the changes of artistic director at the Young Vic and at The Globe, both announced in 2017, are also real.
> 
> Imelda Staunton played Martha in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, and Sally in the original NT production of Follies in 2017. 
> 
> Rupert Goold is the artistic director of the Almeida, and directed Kate Fleetwood as Medea during the Almeida Greeks season in 2015. I know nothing about their home life or interior décor, but they did go to the press night of Follies.
> 
> the bright orange benches along the South Bank were, as Geoffrey suspected, an [installation](https://www.hydeparknow.uk/2016/07/16/modified-social-benches-south-bank/).
> 
> Geoffrey's great-aunt Edie appears in the previous story in this series, Amateur Dramatics.


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